When Harry Met Sherlock
by TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot
Summary: It took a moment to realise what was wrong. The figure in Sherlock's bed was too petite. The hand too delicate. The tousled hair too fine, too straight and unmistakably... blonde.
1. The morning after

**This story is dedicated to ****Forever Siriusly Sirius****. In her request she mentioned, bless her, nearly every character in the show, as well as 'friendship, fluff and family' as possibilities. This is what I came up with!**

**Constructive critisism is most welcome!**

* * *

**The morning after  
9.38am **

No milk.

In the everyday routine of 221B Baker Street, John no longer batted an eyelid over eyes in the microwave, thumbs buried at the back of the fridge and the odd human heart nestled next to the bag of half-eaten oven chips in the freezer.

He was no longer concerned a couple more bullet holes in the wall would bring the place down around their ears. It had survived worse, after all.

Even an angsty violin solo at four in the morning rarely woke him anymore.

But he _bloody well_ _knew_ he had left milk in the fridge before he left last night.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, bursting into the bedroom without knocking in a rare fit of anger. "I don't care if you're in your 'inner sanctum', this is the third time this week you've-"

It took a moment to realise what was wrong.

The figure in Sherlock's bed was too petite.

The hand too delicate.

The tousled hair too fine, too straight and unmistakably... blonde.

"Oh... I'm... I'm sorry-" He stammered at the sleeping form automatically, turning- a quick double take to check his eyes hadn't betrayed him- and walking straight into detective himself.

"John." Sherlock greeted him calmly, depositing a carrier bag into his arms and walking abruptly away. He sprawled on the sofa in his usual pose, draped in his blue dressing gown, and eyed the doctor as he was followed with a weary sigh.

"John, the hissing sound you're making is one commonly associated with the kettle. Before you boil over, I suggest you check the bag, Mrs Hudson bought milk. And while we're talking about it, tea for me, thanks."

"We... we weren't talking... there's a girl in your bed, Sherlock!"

"Brilliant deduction John, I can see my fears regarding your inadequacies were unfounded." Sherlock snapped, though there was a hint of a grin playing across his face.

"Sherlock, I thought... I mean... You told me, when... when we met, girls are _not your area_._" _John answered, flummoxed as he walked away, turned on his heel and came straight back again.

"As ever, John, you fail to understand that experiment is a part of my existence-"

"You're saying you experimented with her? Or... or on her? Oh god-"

"I said nothing of the sort and if you will just let me _finish_ John-"

"I'm not sure I want to know anymore!"

"Fine. Good. Go away then."

"Well now I _have_ to know!"

John couldn't have said how many minutes slipped by as their argument went round and round the garden like a teddy bear_,_ Sherlock obstinately avoiding the answers to his questions.

He only remembered the moment he was suddenly aware of the figure hovering uncertainly in the doorway- petite, girlish figure, pixie cut hair, Sherlock's mug in her hands and Sherlock's tartan robe rolled up to her elbows and pooling around her feet.

Sherlock noticed the shift in John's attention with a lazy, cat like flash of the eyes and grinned.

"Good morning Harry."


	2. The night before

**The night before  
7.14pm**

"Of course he's cheating on you, look at his top button!" Sherlock's shout trailed off into a low grumble, crouched in front of the telly in his armchair, eyes narrowed into slits.

John only hesitated for a moment. Oh, he so rarely got this chance. He had to.

"This is last night's episode, Sherlock. He's not cheating on her, he's shoplifting to pay for her engagement ring. He gets caught by the brother."

"Wrong, John, you're wrong."

"I've seen it."

"Then they're wrong!" The world's one and only consulting detective lurched out of his armchair, stomped across the room (four steps, if you count the one over the coffee table) and sprawled face first in the sofa.

The good doctor watched, bemused.

So help him, he could live with the man for the rest of his natural life and he would never understand him.

"Okay, well, I'm off out now. On my date. The woman from the case last week, remember? There's leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry. You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you? Sherlock? Good. Excellent. Bye, then. Don't wait up. Of course you won't."

**9.02pm**

_Was that knocking?_

"John. Get the door."

_It was knocking._

"John, the door!"

_Oh. 'Date'. Of course._

"No one's home!"

_There._

Sherlock retreated back into his mind palace for a glorious seventeen seconds before he was rudely awakened by the scrape and rattle of a key in the lock. In a sudden flailing movement of elbows and knees, he bolted up, looking every inch the suave, uh, dressing gown-clad detective by the time the door swung open.

He heaved a sigh, blinked, looked the stranger up and down once.

"Harriet Watson."

"Ye-"

"No need to answer, I wasn't asking. You stole John's spare keys while he was in Winchester?"

"Obviously."

"Impressive, but he's not home, so if you'll hand them to m-"

"I'm staying until he gets back."

"No."

"Yes."

With that, the tiny terror marched into the flat, over to her brother's armchair and parked herself on it, all blonde hair and defiance.

For the first time in many weeks, Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

**9.26pm**

_Forty six years of age. Five foot two, over an inch and a half below the height of the average female in the UK. Slim, eight stone give or take two pounds either way. Hair previously bleached, natural at the root, greying around the temples especially. Eyes blue, paler than John's- perhaps genetic predisposition, perhaps the advanced age. Less damage from the alcoholism than he would have expected, frankly. Homosexual, of course, he already knew that but-_

"Stop."

Sherlock momentarily considered wide-eyed innocence, realised it might have worse consequences than he was accustomed to, and harumphed. "It's what I do." He replied haughtily.

"Oh? And what else do Sherlocks _do_?" His flatmate's female counterpart spat.

_Her words were like an accusation but he didn't understand for a moment what he possibly could have done. He had never even met the woman before. John had been adamant it was a bad idea and for once he had been inclined to agree._

Harriet A Watson had misinterpreted his _momentarily confused _silence because suddenly she was up, jabbing a finger in his chest as she ranted. "Now listen here, no matter what John may have told you about our relationship, I have always protected him and you need to remember-"

_What had he ever done to John? Okay, he had set a fire or two in the flat and emphatically told his last girlfriend how boring she was and there was the time he had pushed him into the Thames but that was for a case. He understood. _

Continuing to misinterpret his _completely bewildered _silence, Harry raved on. "- I'm obviously not against it and from the way he talks I do know what he sees in you but he had dreams Holmes, a wife and two children and a fucking white picket fence-"

_Of course John wanted children and a white picket fence and probably a labrador. Dull. He made a point not to ask and he wasn't stopping him from going out and getting the life he wanted. He crashed a few dates, yes. It just so happened that he chose spectacularly unsuitable girlfriends._

Blindly pushing the boundaries of his _utterly stunned _silence, Harry rambled, "-and I know you're the almighty Holmes but everything he does, he does for you, and the fact that you don't even acknowledge he's in love with you-"

_- Oh._

And then Harry saw.

"Oh... You... you don't know, do you? He told me you were like this but I... I didn't believe anyone could be so-"

_John? No. John wanted a wife and two kids and apparently a white picket fence (were they even real?) or at the very least a good shag now and then and he had made that very clear on several occasions. Of course, he never acknowledged the clash of interest in just how mundane he found everyday life without the army, or a case, or Sherlock. _

And then Sherlock did what Sherlocks do. Overwhelmed, disconcerted and unable to process the information, instead, he deduced.

"Watson-"


End file.
